


Poetry

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Enough trust to sleep with each other, not enough to actually sleep together until morning. Sensible. She’d hate to wake with a dagger between her ribs if he woke up from a nightmare and decided she was just another ghost haunting him.One day, she might be.





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).



> (Many thanks to Ranna for beta reading)

The silver threads in his hair look much better in the moonlight, Billie thinks, leaning on her elbow, her gaze wandering over Daud’s body appreciatively. His face is just as inscrutable and mysterious as the masks they threw into a corner when they came back, but his eyes – she can read his eyes. The old bastard likes her.

With a satisfied sigh, she lies down beside him, playfully nipping at his ear. He growls, but lets her. In a moment – maybe more, if they start talking, even though they don’t do that often – they will get up, and she will put her clothes on and leave while he will set the hidden traps – there’s at least two or three she hasn’t found yet. Enough trust to sleep with each other, not enough to actually sleep together until morning. Sensible. She’d hate to wake with a dagger between her ribs if he woke up from a nightmare and decided she was just another ghost haunting him.

One day, she might be. She’d like that. Daud often tells her she’s too ambitious, but she wouldn’t have gotten as far as she did otherwise. Nor stayed there. Rooftops are slippery, in more than one sense when you’re a Whaler. Assassins usually retire abruptly – but that’s a part of the job. Dunwall has little more to offer to a girl from nowhere.

She has learnt to use everything to her advantage, and Daud teaches his Whalers that even a tiny detail can give them an edge. That is why, even though they do not work after the last day of the Month of Songs – easier to hide, in the commotion, but also easier for things to get messy, and they take pride in _quality_ – she puts on a different mask than usual and ventures into the streets. Oh, others do that, too, even their leader – but, with a few like-minded Whalers, she spends that time gathering information on her next targets – often from their own lips. Daud disapproves, calls it fraternizing, reminds her it might make things difficult. It never does. Maybe because she grew up in the gutter. Survival always comes first.

One day, she might utilize that knowledge to her advantage. There is only one way to go up in a hierarchy where the leader doesn’t retire. And who knows, maybe if – when – if it comes to that, he will even appreciate her particular talent. But not before she figures out his.

Thoughtful, she traces Daud’s arm down to his hand. Her fingertips follow the lines and curves of the mark, as if she was trying to learn its shape. If she still was that girl that stumbled upon him in the streets, she might have drawn over the lines with charcoal, to remember them better.

“It won’t work if you cut it out of my skin,” Daud mutters, amused.

Billie snorts. “You don’t say.” Then, she grins. “How about if I keep it really…” She rolls over, straddling him, “…really close?”

He indulges her for a moment. “Should I take it as a suggestion I’m good enough to take you to the Void and back?”

She laughs, doubling over, her elbows at his shoulders as she tries to keep balance. “We might need to test it… further.” Mussing his short hair, she kisses him.

“We’ve got a job tomorrow, Lurk,” he reminds. “Doesn’t sleep seem like a good idea?”

Shrugging is a tad difficult in her current position, but she tries. “What happened to ‘you’ll sleep when you’re dead’?” she asks, mimicking his sternest voice.

Daud huffs. “Age.”

“What, like you’re too old for the job?” She grins. “Your dagger seems just fine.”

“Reason,” he explains. It is difficult to tell in the dark, but she is sure he has just rolled his eyes too. “You’re supposed to get wiser as you get older.”

“Well, I’m still balancing the fine line between wisdom and youth.”

He actually chuckles at that. “More like recklessness.” But his hands follow through with her suggestions, and Billie sighs.

What a shame it will be one day, when she will have to kill him. What a fitting way to go. She doesn’t know a lot about art, but this is the poetry of shadows at the edges of muted lamplight, of dark corners and streets at night, the only kind they can have. Those who look down on them even as they fear them would say there’s nothing glorious in that… But who needs glorious when one can have _thrilling_.

Billie shudders, then gasps when Daud sits up, and he swallows that gasp into a hard kiss. He makes love – a ridiculous term to name their dalliance, but what better time for ornate masks than a Fugue Feast? – he makes love like he fights – efficient and elegant and seemingly effortless. She revels in the knowledge that – like in a fight – she can leave him exhausted and panting.

Fuck poetry, Billie thinks. This – two bodies dancing, the sheen of sweat that turns them to silver in the moonlight – they gleam like coins – the rhythm of blood in their veins; their breaths, erratic but synchronised – like in a fight – this is glorious. Not something stupid like in stories. Blood and flesh, real, tangible.

“To the Void?” Daud asks, in between gulps of air, when they collapse onto the sheets.

“Nah.” She curls against him – just for a moment – like a content cat. “I’m fine here right now.”


End file.
